


Put the Wheels in Motion for Me

by nunwithgun



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Doropetra Day 2019, F/F, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Game, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nunwithgun/pseuds/nunwithgun
Summary: "What in the name of the Goddess does seaweed have to do with courting women?""It is a...metaphor? Is that the word?"Dorothea laughs. "I suppose it must be."SEAPrompt for Doropetra Day 2019 — Petra and Dorothea attend one of Brigid's midnight festivals and Dorothea falls more and more in love.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Comments: 10
Kudos: 146
Collections: Dorothea/Petra Day 2019





	Put the Wheels in Motion for Me

**Author's Note:**

> So the explanation behind this is that I already had a fic idea in mind that matched up with one of the Doropetra Day prompts, and that's about it. Plus I have a very strong sense of Brigid being a highly Celtic- & Gaelic-like country in terms of culture bc of the naming conventions. 

Dorothea is by no means an amateur in the art of dance. Between her training on the stage and Byleth's tutelage on the battlefield, she actually fancies herself quite good at many forms of Fódlan’s traditional dancing. From the stiff, awkward waltz of nobility to the lively jig of the common folk, Dorothea knows it all.

The dancing of Brigid, however, is another story entirely.

Dorothea stands at the edge of a Brigidian festival for the start of their summer hunt, flexing her bare toes in the sand beneath her feet. The fire at the middle of the celebration burns high and bright, the only source of light for miles save for a handful of torches planted along the path leading away from the shore. All else is illuminated solely by the glow of the full moon above, and Dorothea would venture to call the whole thing breathtaking.

Or she would, if she had any breath left to take while watching the wonder that is Petra Macneary.

Petra has been nothing short of wonderful for the past few months. Acclimating to Brigid, both in terms of culture and climate, has felt like one of the hardest things Dorothea has ever done, but Petra has been by her side through all the ups and downs of the process. Petra has also been all too frustrating, between the way that her muscles ripple under her skin when she tosses a fishing spear and the look in her eyes when she calls Dorothea "beautiful" in the traditional Brigidian garb. Dorothea wishes she knew what they were to each other at this point, wishes she knew what it meant when Petra looked at her the way that she did.

Now, the princess is the one at the center of attention, extended onto her toes as she dances around a pair of crossed blades on the ground with absolute ease. She makes it seem effortless, the way she bounds about with a chorus of Brigidian cheers goading her on. The pipes and drums nearby quicken the tempo, doing their best to have her trip. Her brow merely creases in concentration as she matches them beat for beat.

When she finishes, kneeling in the sand and hands outstretched, Dorothea is certain she has never heard such a roar as the one that rises from the crowd around them. The princess laughs and smiles as the people Dorothea recognizes as her childhood friends encircle her, giving playful punches to the shoulder and pats on the back. The songstress remembers Petra telling her the purpose of the dance was to grant them many a victory in their hunts, but only if she were to complete it without touching any part of the crossed blades. Dorothea supposes the electricity running through the crowd translates to a resounding success.

Petra is only distracted for a moment, though, and when the mass of bodies between them clears she is staring only at Dorothea. The songstress feels her heart thud at the walls of her chest as the princess rises, trotting through the deep sand effortlessly to make her way to Dorothea's side.

The fire shines across her skin, reflected in the thin sheen of sweat that covers it. She wears what any member of Fódlan society would consider merely small clothes, her chest concealed only by wraps of cloth and an odd-looking skirt and leggings about her waist. Her newest tattoo, a winding flame representing victory in war that curls about her left shoulder, seems accentuated by the moonlight above.

Dorothea, as she usually does, makes sure to avert her eyes before she ends up staring too long. Petra is far too easy to gaze at, and Dorothea thinks that she might just get lost in her forever if she didn't have the self-discipline to not leer at a pretty woman.

"Are you liking what you see?" Petra asks. The way the corner of her lip quirks upwards has Dorothea wondering whether she meant to deliver such an overt come on or whether she's stumbling through Fodlan's language once more now that she's back in her homeland. The songstress feels her heart skip a beat or two at the thought of the former suggestion, but decides to assume the latter for fear of what would happen to the already unsteady rhythm in her chest otherwise.

Dorothea smiles back at her with a nod. "Perhaps the professor was mistaken in making me the dancer of our army, Petra. You're quite good!"

Petra waves off the compliment and shakes her head. "That is not making sense. You are having much more grace when you are dancing. You are like..." She pauses, considering, and grins when the proper translation finally comes to mind. "You are like the Gale Spirit."

"Stop, you're making me blush." And she really is, Dorothea notices as she feels heat rise to her cheeks at the accolade. She is still not entirely familiar with the pantheon of Brigidian deities, but she at least knows she should not take being compared to one lightly.

"I am hoping so," comes Petra's quick and witty response.

Dorothea is grateful for the distraction when the pipes and drums strike a new tune and a rousing cheer goes up once more. It seems as if this is a crowd favorite, and suddenly everyone is grabbing the person closest to them and breaking out in a lively jig.

Dorothea turns to watch, entranced. "What is this song about?"

Petra glances over at the ensemble as their singer's voice begins to swell above the crowd. Her head tilts slightly, an adorable little habit Dorothea has noticed she performs when thinking hard about something. "It is about a man who wishes to court a beautiful woman. He is not having much to his name, and the woman's father is not having much respect for him because of this," she explains in a thoughtful murmur.

One of Petra's best warriors calls to her in their native tongue, gesturing to Dorothea with a gleam in his eye. Petra laughs—no, the princess outright _giggles_ and shakes her head at him in response. He shrugs and returns to his partner, but it seems Petra has not entirely brushed the idea aside.

"Are you wanting to dance?" she suddenly asks.

"I'd make a fool of myself," Dorothea insists. She looks out at a stage she does not know, and a twinge of fear rises in her chest. Performing at the opera is one thing, a practiced and careful routine she can memorize and tweak to perfection. The thought of trying to fumble her way through a dance she knows nothing about on the arm of the country's heir is horrifying.

"Would you be liking some practice?" Petra's fingers brush at the small of Dorothea's bare back, and even if she wanted to the songstress doesn't think she'd be able to think hard enough to refuse. She nods wordlessly Petra, who smiles so sweetly in return.

They wade out into the waves and Dorothea still finds herself shocked at how warm the waters of Brigid are, even at night. Her experiences with water in the past have never been particularly good, and for the longest time bathing in the freezing fountains of Enbarr to wash the blood and dirt from her matted hair came to mind when thinking on it. Swimming far from the shore with Petra, being knee deep in crystal clear water playing like a child with Petra, is all starting to change that.

The huntress halts and takes a step back so she can bow until her elbows practically touch her knees. Dorothea laughs, taking joy in the way she mocks the Fódlan stiffness they experienced at the Grand Ball so many years ago. Petra rises again, looking quite pleased with her jest. "Please be putting your hands in mine, madam."

Dorothea admittedly has to stifle another chuckle at the request, so formal despite the fact that they've spent the past few months in Brigid at each other's side. She knows now at least that Petra is playing around, and that stokes her endearment for the smaller woman that much more. Dorothea complies, lays her hands across Petra's and her partner gently leads her in a circle.

Petra teaches her for a good minute or two, but Dorothea finds that she takes to the dance faster than expected. Before long she is skipping alongside the princess in a jig that seems scandalous by Fódlan's standards, so energetic that the water around their ankles splashes up and douses them with each movement.

The musicians on the shore crescendo into a rousing chorus, and Dorothea’s interest in piqued at the phrase she hears there. She slows their dance to a halt and glances over at the celebration once more.

Petra's thumb rubs at the back of her hand, suddenly concerned. "Is something the matter?"

"No, not at all." Dorothea is quick to reassure her, as she's already decided that this moment alone in Petra has been the highlight of her night, if not the highlight of all her time here. "What does that word they keep repeating mean?"

Petra pauses, and it is not lost on Dorothea that their hands are still intertwined. The princess listens, cranes her neck back towards the shore to try and hear before realization hits her. "Ah, seaweed."

Dorothea can do nothing but blink in confusion. "I thought you said that was a song about courting women?"

Petra stares back, unwavering. "It is."

"What in the name of the Goddess does seaweed have to do with courting women?"

"It is a...metaphor? Is that the word?"

Dorothea laughs. "I suppose it must be."

With their dance halted, Dorothea is noticing more and more how close they have gotten. She dares to glance down at the huntress and almost wishes she hadn't, because now she's caught there and she can't even think of looking away. Petra's brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly as there's something she absolutely has to say but can't quite get it out. Dorothea wonders if she's feeling just as captivated.

"Dorothea, my heart is feeling full when I am looking at you," Petra breathes the confession out so softly that Dorothea almost thinks she must be dreaming it. The determination in the huntress's eyes convinces her otherwise.

Dorothea feels heat rise at the back of her neck, and for once it's not Brigid's harsh sun beating down on her. She realizes she's just gaping in return. "I think I could say the same, Petra." Dorothea nearly wants to run at the lame response that tumbles past her lips. She can't believe herself, the charmer that usually goes toe to toe with any man who dares to flirt with her struggling with a gorgeous woman's affections.

Then again, this is not just any woman, Dorothea realizes.

Petra pauses, sliding her hand up to Dorothea's arm to rest at her shoulder. She's looking, seemingly searching for any sign that what she's doing is wrong. The concern and care has Dorothea's knees weak, and what the princess says next has them even weaker. "May I be...kissing y—"

Dorothea does not wait for Petra to finish her sentence, because she knows if she does the affection in her chest might erupt and spill over upon hearing it in full. She leans forward, pressing her lips against her dancing partner's in a firmness and confidence she has not felt in herself in a long while. Just when she is ready to recoil in embarrassment, Petra brings her hand to Dorothea's cheek, drawing her in closer and closer until Dorothea feels like she's ready to drown in the princess before her.

Petra is the first to pull away slowly, glancing up into Dorothea's eyes with those gorgeous brown hues of hers that make the songstress's face immediately flush. They say nothing, content just to be near each other, content to have feelings that have built up since the middle of the war finally realized. The waves lap at Dorothea's knees, now, but Petra is holding the songstress steady in her arms.

Dorothea almost doesn't want to break the silence between them, almost goes in for another kiss instead. She holds back when she hears the chords of the song drawing to a close back on the shore. "What happens in the end of the song, Petra?"

There's something about way that Petra's eyes light up that's almost magical, as if a Bolganone itself has been cast there. "The two of them run away together," she says, and she only has to whisper with how close they are.

Dorothea feels her heart beat along with the rhythm of the drums. Her cheeks almost hurt from the smile that's spread across them. "That's wonderful to hear."

**Author's Note:**

> Song of the piece + title is inspired by "Dúlaman" as sung by Celtic Woman  
> Follow me on Twitter @nunwithgun if you’re interested in that sort of thing and especially if you want to talk about Petra wearing a kilt 👀


End file.
